


And all the roads we have to walk

by aboutbunnies



Category: Lost
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:24:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6926077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aboutbunnies/pseuds/aboutbunnies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slow burn of Hurley/Claire, early season 4, Barracks era. <i>He reaches his hand out, but stops it just inches from her shoulder. He feels too clumsy, too raw in his grief to touch hers, just yet.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	And all the roads we have to walk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stefanie_bean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stefanie_bean/gifts).



The first night on their trek to the Barracks, Hurley lays out his bedroll next to Claire's.

He doesn't close his eyes; he can't. If he closes his eyes, he'll see Charlie in the water, Charlie gasping for breath, Charlie drowning to save them.

He watches her instead, sleeping fitfully, and he picks up Aaron when he stirs, before she can wake fully. Cradling the baby to his chest, he whispers to him and to Charlie.

“I'll take care of her,” he promises, but the baby either doesn't believe him, or needs something else entirely, and stirring turns to whimpering turns to wailing, and Claire does wake, then.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, and Hurley shakes his head, handing the baby over.

She turns away from him and opens her shirt, and the baby finds her breast and suckles and calms.

Hurley lays back down and rolls onto his back, but he glances at her in time to see her shoulders begin to shake, listens as she sniffs quietly.

He reaches his hand out, but stops it just inches from her shoulder. He feels too clumsy, too raw in his grief to touch hers, just yet.

\-----

The next night, he still can't sleep. When he finds Aaron awake, as well, wide eyes open to the stars above them, Hurley gathers the baby up again and sits up against a tree.

“I wish you were going to remember him,” he finally murmurs after a long while of silence, and Aaron blinks up at him, uncomprehending.

“He loved – he was a good friend,” he adds, around a sudden tightness in his throat, and when he tries to remember a song Charlie used to sing to the baby, all he comes up with is James Brown, which will not at all do for a midnight lullaby; when he tries to hum a slow rendition it sounds all wrong. So he falls silent again, instead, inadequacies creeping up on him in the shadow of a ghost.

He doesn't notice Claire is awake until he feels her hand grab his and hold on tight. His hand warms where it meets hers, and he squeezes back. He doesn't realize when he finally falls asleep.

In the morning, he's got Aaron on his chest and her hand in his.

\-----

When they settle at the Barracks, Sawyer watches as Hurley paces their small living room, keeps looking out the window in the evening, in the direction of Claire's house.

“For god's sake, Big Daddy, just _go over there_ , already,” he finally grumbles, “You're makin' me dizzy.”

“What? I'm not --” Hurley protests, but not before his face flushes and heats, and he rushes, then, to explain. “She doesn't have anyone...anymore...”

Sawyer just stares at him, shit-eating grin on his face.

“That's not what I _meant_ , and you know it,” Hurley huffs, when he hears what he'd said, played back in his mind with a Sawyer-filter applied. “Anyone to _help with the baby_ ,” he clarifies, and hates that he's starting to sweat at his temples, just a little, through the half-truth.

“Sure,” Sawyer drawls, “you go on and 'help with the baby,' then.” And he actually uses air quotes.

Hurley doesn't bother dignifying that with a response; instead, he walks out the front door – so what if it bangs against the frame a little too hard when he pushes it away – and ignores Sawyer's call of “Good luck, Romeo,” as he heads across the yard towards Claire's.

He can hear the baby wailing as soon as he nears her front porch, and his irritation at Sawyer fades into the background as he climbs the steps. He knocks first, but then tries the door and pushes it open when he finds it unlocked.

Claire's walking the living room with Aaron in her arms, the baby red-faced and screaming, kicking his legs and flailing his arms though she's trying to hold him close. “Hurley,” she sighs, anxiously, as he enters, “I'm sorry – is he that loud?”

“What?” He shakes his head, stepping closer to the two. “No, I just...I just wanted to see how...how you two were...how you were.” He clears his throat, mentally kicking himself at how awkward he suddenly sounds. “How you were doing.”

Claire rocks her body and shifts Aaron to her shoulder, patting his back as she speaks over his wails, seeming to not notice Hurley's stammering. “I don't know what's wrong. I just fed him and he even had a good burp, he's got a dry nappy...I know he's tired but he just won't settle.”

“Do you want me to...try?” Hurley surprises himself by asking, but it comes out smoother, now, “I could take him for a while, give your arms a rest?”

He expects her to decline, but she does the opposite, immediately, relief in her voice. “Oh, Hurley, _would_ you?” And she doesn't wait for him to agree before she's stepping closer to him, holding Aaron out to transfer him to his arms.

He grunts a little in surprise, but takes the baby readily, cradling him the way Claire'd done and patting his back. Though Aaron is still screaming, Hurley feels better, not as awkward, now he's got an actual purpose for being here. He _can_ help with the baby, or try to at least, Sawyer and his innuendos and his air quotes be damned.

Claire is still hovering anxiously, looking no more relaxed than when she'd been holding Aaron, and Hurley nods to the front door. “Mind if I take him outside? Just to the porch,” he clarifies. Maybe some fresh air, he thinks. (What does he know? It's all he's got, at the moment.) On Claire's nod, he pushes the front door open and steps onto the porch, still patting Aaron's back and whispering a litany of “shh, shh, shh,” close to his ear.

There's a warm breeze coming across the yard, and though the sun's been down for hours, with the moon and stars brilliant above them it still looks like twilight. Hurley takes deep, slow, deliberate breaths, letting Aaron ride the tide of his inhalations and exhalations.

Maybe it's his imagination, but he swears the baby's cries lessen somewhat. Hurley looks down at him, eyebrow arched skeptically. “C'mon, buddy, you gotta give her a break,” he mumbles quietly, not wanting Claire to overhear. He keeps up the patting and the shushing and the breathing, and steps closer to the porch railing so the breeze touches Aaron's cheek, ruffles his wispy hair just slightly.

It's not just his imagination anymore, and Aaron is definitely winding down. He stops flailing his limbs and he's whimpering more than squalling, now. Hurley sighs in relief, and feels Claire's shoulder brush his arm as she comes to stand beside them.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, placing her palm gently on the mostly-quiet baby's head.

Hurley shrugs one shoulder. “Wasn't anything,” he allows. “Maybe he just missed being outside. He's not used to living in a house yet.”

Claire chuckles softly in surprise. “I didn't even think about that,” she admits. “I've just been looking forward to a real bed. And a bath,” she adds, something close to awe in her voice. “There's a bathtub here, Hurley. A _bathtub_.”

He grins at her enthusiasm, relieved she's lost the desperate anxiety he'd felt rolling off of her when he'd arrived earlier to the sound of Aaron's wails. “Do you want...do you want one now?” he offers, impulsively, and inclines his chin towards the baby in his arms. “Aaron and I can hang out here while you do.”

“Really?” She squeezes his arm, and at the smile she gives him, he feels his cheeks warm. As he nods, she bends to kiss the baby's forehead before going back inside the house.

Hurley leans against the porch rail with Aaron, breathing slowly in the warm evening air. After several minutes, he sees the door of his and Sawyer's house open across the yard and he raises his hand in greeting as Sawyer steps onto the porch, beer bottle in hand. Sawyer reciprocates; Hurley sees the ghost of a smirk on his face as Sawyer's wave changes into to a thumbs-up. Hurley chuckles softly to himself before sitting down on an old porch bench to wait.

Either it's a long enough wait, or Aaron sleeping against him is that relaxing a sensation, but when the door opens and the light from the living room crosses his face Hurley's head jerks up in surprise. The baby is still sleeping and Sawyer is no longer on the porch across the yard. Hurley rouses himself from his accidental half-sleep and turns, standing up carefully when he sees Claire in the doorway.

“Hurley...thank you,” she murmurs softly, stepping to him, her hand resting on his forearm as she bends her head to kiss Aaron gently.

She's warm and flushed from the bath, hair damp and curling around her face. Hurley feels something tighten in his chest, and he looks up at the sky so he doesn't lean closer to her while her head is still down.

He clears his throat quietly. “It wasn't anything,” he murmurs, low, not wanting to disturb the baby. Then, “Do you have a place for him to sleep?”

She nods and steps away from him, leading him into the house. He follows her to the bedroom and she gestures to a drawer from the dresser on the floor, made up with a nest of blankets. “It's nothing like his cradle...” she says, regretful and apologetic.

Hurley shakes his head as he crouches down to place the baby in the makeshift crib. “It's great, Claire. He'll love it.” He holds his breath when the baby stirs, lets it out when he smacks his lips once, twice, then settles. “See?” He brushes his fingertips over wispy hair. “Goodnight, Aaron.”

A short while later, after she's said goodnight to the baby, she joins him in the living room. He smiles and shuffles his feet, nodding to the door, suddenly awkward without Aaron as a buffer between them. “I, ah...I should go...”

She nods and moves as if to go to the door to let him out, but changes course at the last moment and puts her arms around him instead. He “oofs” quitely in surprise, and it takes him several moments to return her hug.

He breathes slowly, as he had to soothe Aaron, hoping she can't feel his heart thudding in his chest even as she tightens her embrace. She's absolutely tiny against him, and her arms barely reach around to his back, but she doesn't seem to care. She's warm and inviting and smells of lavender shampoo; he finally allows himself to lower his face to her hair.

She lets him be the first to let go.

\-----

They develop a routine, of sorts. Hurley spends his days at his and Sawyer's house or elsewhere around the compound, playing horseshoes with Sawyer, board games with Locke, doing random chores. The bland normalcy of this new existence is jarring, at first, after the desperation and mere survival of their previous time on the island. But it is not an unwelcome change.

And, as part of this new routine, in the evenings Hurley goes to Claire's. He's surprised at the relative ease of it, after the first time. He entertains the baby so Claire can take a bath, or fold laundry, or simply relax on the sofa with one of a stack of 1970s celebrity gossip magazines she'd found in a box in the hall closet.

After the first night, when Aaron is asleep, she preempts his awkward, stumbling “I should go,” by pouring them both a glass of Dharma box wine. He accepts because he doesn't know what else to do, and while he's never been a wine drinker, at least the alcohol gives a somewhat plausible reason for his slightly flushed face when she asks him to stay just a little longer. And so this becomes their routine, as well: they both settle on the sofa or on the porch bench, with a glass of wine and a bag of Dharma pretzels between them.

They talk mostly about the here and now: about something new Aaron had done that day, about Sawyer's attempts to start a library of sorts from the Others' bookshelves (“He just wants to charge us the late fees,” says Claire, laughing), about Locke's and Miles' newest ideas and theories and schemes. Occasionally they talk about those they'd left behind, reminisce about the times before these most recent factions and splits in their group.

Sometimes, they talk about Charlie, though usually only on the rare nights they've refilled their wine glasses one too many times. The mention always comes on suddenly, in a stuttered breath, grief still fresh enough they both only speak of him when the memory comes unbidden. They sit closer to each other those times, shoulders and arms touching, needing the tactile presence of another who'd known and loved him.

“I think I might have been able to fall in love with him,” Claire says quietly, one night, her temple resting on Hurley's shoulder. He sucks in a breath, a spark of irrational jealousy taking him off guard.

“I hadn't, yet,” she continues, and Hurley is surprised to feel her hand come to wrap around his. “But I think I would have.”

He turns his hand to hold hers, palm to palm. “He loved you,” he admits, something Charlie had never said to him aloud, but that Hurley had known, all the same. “He loved Aaron.”

Claire shifts her hand slightly, intertwining their fingers and holding on tight. “He loved _you_ , too.”

Hurley swallows audibly and squeezes her hand in gratitude, stupid jealousy forgotten. “He was my best friend,” he admits, his voice rough, and Claire turns her head to press her lips against his shoulder.

\-----

Some nights, after their stories have been exhausted, Hurley looks over to find Claire asleep, mouth just slightly open as she breathes evenly against his arm. He stands up from the sofa and stoops to gather her up, as carefully as he'd handle a sleeping Aaron. Walking with her in his arms to the bedroom, he lays her gently on her bed and draws the covers around her. He allows himself one brush of his fingertips on her cheek before he leaves.

Other nights, he wakes in her darkened living room, slightly disoriented, to find she's eased his shoes off and hauled his legs up onto the sofa so he'd be more comfortable, tucked a knitted afghan around his body. These nights, he feels almost bereft of the press of her arm against him, her hand in his, and he takes several moments to re-orient himself before slipping on his shoes again, folding the afghan into a neat square on the sofa, and closing the front door quietly behind himself.

Tonight, as he settles her onto her bed, her hand closes around his forearm before he can reach to draw the covers over her.

“Hurley,” she whispers, and his breath catches in his throat. “You should stay.”

He freezes, squints to see her in the darkness of her bedroom, her eyes open and glinting up at him. “I'm...I'm sorry,” he stammers, “I didn't mean to wake you.”

“ _Hurley_ ,” she says again, a bit stronger but still quiet, mindful of the baby sleeping next to the bed. “You should stay.”

He swallows and feels his face heat, though she won't see that in the darkness. “Are you...are you sure?” he asks, holding his breath.

“If you want to,” she answers, suddenly sounding nervous, her hand trembling just slightly against his arm.

He lets out a breath and toes off his shoes, leaving them on the floor as he climbs into bed beside her. He feels awkward in his size, taking up too much space, but then she reaches down and pulls up the sheet around them both, cocooning them together. He senses the tension ease from both of them and feels bolder, bringing a hand to rest at her hip.

She sighs as his thumb rubs absently against her, working at the edge of her shirt and occasionally brushing skin.

“Hurley,” she whispers, and he feels her breath against his neck, her scent, lavender shampoo and baby powder, enveloping him. It's heady, and he sends a desperate message from his brain to his groin to not embarrass him, not now.

“Claire,” he murmurs in response, and her skin is hot under his hand; he never wants to let go.

“Hurley,” she says again, and she shifts closer to him so he moves his hand to accommodate her, palm flat on the skin of the small of her back. “Kiss me.”

His blood rushes as he replays it in his mind. _Kiss me._ And he only has to lean forward slightly to comply; his lips come to press against hers, no need for other encouragement. It's a release of tension, a culmination, grief and healing all in one.

She parts her lips and his tongue finds hers; he moves his hand from her back to cup her cheek, instead. His nerve endings are on fire as she touches up his body, one hand finally coming to rest on his shoulder, the other carding through his hair as they kiss, tasting wine and salt on each other's mouths.

They part when it's necessary, their breathing loud in the stillness of the room. Hurley can't help the grin that steals over his face, and in the darkness he can just make out her answering smile.

She doesn't have to ask him to kiss her again.

**Author's Note:**

> My soundtrack as I wrote this was comprised solely of Ryan Adams' cover of [Wonderwall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0gVxRvNfFLg), because Charlie. <3 I kind of view this fic as a love song from both Hurley and Claire to Charlie. As weird as that may seem.
> 
> I've taken some liberties with timing and some details from the Barracks era. Mostly because season 4 is not one I'm willing to rewatch at this point. Heh.
> 
> This can also be read [on my tumblr](http://sombra-alma.tumblr.com/post/144728404897/are-you-still-taking-drabble-pairing-requests-if).


End file.
